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“Nigeria is like a ballerina twirling on the edge of a cliff,” I
said with a restrained sense of pride about my country. “Every time she is
about to fall off the edge, she pulls back and launches into a new rhythm that
confounds all spectators and detractors alike.”

I was alluding to the fact that irrespective of the tensions,
conflicts, suspicions, and ethnic rivalries that still characterise the
delicate federal arrangement that is Nigeria, the country has miraculously
managed to ensure that ‘things don’t fall apart’. The centre has held, albeit
precariously.

It was a particularly lovely morning in Nigeria’s capital city,
Abuja. The air was ebullient with the festive spirit that had engulfed most of
the country as it celebrated 50 years of independence from British rule. Though
many Nigerians were disgruntled or disgusted at how short of their hopes the
country had fallen from the great expectations of independence, others felt
that there was still much for us to celebrate.

“At least, we have not had a genocide like Rwanda,” someone
pointed out, during a discussion. “The Biafran war and the recent religious
killings in Jos were mini-genocides, I’ll have you know,” another quickly
rebutted.

However, on that morning of Independence Day, our criticisms
were replaced by a sense of patriotism and national pride. Even the birds
seemed jubilant that morning, as I sat around a coffee table on a hotel rooftop
patio with the BBC’s indefatigable Komla Domor and the intensely cerebral
Nigerian intellectual, Dr. Ndidi Nnoli Edozien. Ndidi and I had been asked to
be guest commentators on the BBC ‘s special feature on Nigeria’s 50th
anniversary.

For months, Ndidi and I have been debating the leadership
question in Nigeria. Amongst other views, she believed we needed an
intellectual revolution to initiate change, and I believed what we needed was
social renewal from the bottom up. In a sense, we were both right. We needed
both.

“Our politics is a reflection of society”, I often said. “These
politicians did not fall out of the sky, nor do they come from Mars. We created
them. They are the products of our society. If we change our society, our
politics, and our polity will change,” I would often pontificate.

After the interview, we debated a bit more, with Komla adding in
his erudite knowledge of Africa and Nigeria, more specifically. He said someone
had said Nigeria has been kidnapped by the same political elite that has been
in power since its independence. It was true. A mercenary cabal of political
bandits had kidnapped the country and its coffers, and ordinary Nigerians have
been paying the ransom for over 50 years. The future of the country’s youth had
been mortgaged to the past and the hopes of a nation truncated by their greed.

The streets of Abuja were generously decorated with the colours
of the national flag, ‘green-white-green’, as I drove home. Everywhere, signs
of congratulatory and celebratory events abounded.

Nigerians of all ages, religions, and ethnicity littered the
streets with a spring in their steps. Some people had flags pinned on the
rooftops of their cars, others had flags draped on tree branches in front of
their homes, and some did away with non-essential clothing and instead, painted
themselves green-white-green. I had never seen such patriotism in Nigeria in my
life, unless of course, it was football related.

At home, I switched on the television to watch the parade at
Eagle Square. I was half impressed by the efforts, half irritated by the lack
of proper attention to detail, and fully disgusted with the effusive sycophancy
to the ‘big wigs.’ I walked to my balcony from where I could see Aso Rock, our
seat of power in all its stony glory. It seemed so near, yet so far. I wondered
if our problem was that the decision-makers lived in these removed enclaves,
these secure bubbles disconnected from the needs and agitations of those whom
they were supposed to serve.

As I turned to walk back into the living room, I heard what
Jeremy Weate described as a “far flung powdery explosion”, like a giant bag of
rice and, being thrown down from the heavens, landed with a huge thump on a
football field.

A few minutes later, a journo friend sent me a text “Abuja has
been bombed, ten confirmed dead.” Was that the ‘thump’ I heard? I looked up at
the TV in consternation; our soldiers were still marching with national pride
and our president saluting his troops. Did they know we had been attacked? If
they did, it did not stop the business of government. We must not lose face
before our dignitaries. The people will take care of themselves. They always
did.

I switched channels seeking news of the event only to stumble on
the Ministry of Information’s advert: Nigeria Great People, Great Nation. The
ten people that died and their bereaved families, I am sure, had other opinions
about Nigeria’s greatness. I switched off the TV and couldn’t help but ask
myself, “is the ballerina about to fall off the cliff?”

Dapo Oyewole writes from Abuja & nbs